


Fourteen Things that Always Happen to Faramir and Éowyn

by GoodQueenVold



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anachronism galore, Angst, Angst and Humor, Bad Poetry, Bad Sex, Bad Writing, Crack, Crack Relationships, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, Multi, Parody, Songfic, WTF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:18:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2026536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodQueenVold/pseuds/GoodQueenVold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tired of the old Farawyn cliches in fanfiction? Tired of songfics to idiotic songs, watching Éowyn sleep, Faramir angsting about fatherhood, and Denethor abusing Faramir for no reason? Behold as I mock everything that always happens to Faramir and Éowyn in terrible fanfiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Angsty, Angsty Angstfest

**Author's Note:**

> Before we get started, I should note that although yes, I am writing this partly because the quality of some Faramir/Éowyn fics -- usually written by people who have only seen the films -- is poor and quite lamentable, and is therefore prime fodder for ruthless mocking, I am mostly doing it out of love. Besides, not every 'thing that happens to Faramir and Éowyn' is necessarily bad; I have read superb fics that contain many, if not most, of the scenarios and elements that I'm going to mock. Strange as it is, the best and, really, _only_ homage I can personally pay to someone or something is to poke fun at it. No harm done, eh?
> 
> Pretty much all of these chapters come from years and years of vague remembrances of fics upon fics upon fics. No particular stories are intended. Heck, I've caught echoes of my own rubbish in here.

**Part One: Faramir**  
(March 3011, Third Age)

It was a wonderful day in the great city of Minas Tirith… well, wonderful to everyone but the Steward's younger son, that is. In the Steward's residence, in a spider-infested broom closet by the servants' quarters, a twenty-eight-year-old boy hid among stacks of buckets and cleaning supplies, sobbing and wheezing like an asthmatic cat. None who passed by knew exactly _why_ Faramir cried so, and neither did he, though he would soon find out for himself. Unfortunately for Faramir, he was subject to extreme fits of emotional recklessness that were akin to PMS, or so his father believed.

Then again, Denethor believed a lot of things about Faramir that may or may not have been true, depending on how much the author of the fic cares about canon. According to Denethor and eighty-four percent of the Gondorian population, Faramir was concurrently a reincarnation of Norma Talmadge, a spy in the service of Sir Francis Walsingham (who was, conveniently, both dead and non-existent), and was prone to viciously slaughtering cornflakes in the throes of breakfast-inspired passion. Of course, none of these ideas were remotely true, but Denethor held fast to his misconceptions about his unwanted, unloved, and most certainly useless son. Well, Faramir remained useless for most things, save abuse, for whacking Faramir repeatedly with blunt objects sure beat having to do so to poor, innocent kittens.

Faramir, despite angsty situations that rendered him "emo," in the terms of modern teenagers, could hardly ever feel anything but numb to the cruel, vicious world that hated him so. At least Linkin Park and Simple Plan calmed his tortured soul at night, the one time at which he could be himself without his father breathing down his back, making him feel inferior. _But I_ am _inferior,_ he cried to a pair of mops, _and no one loves me! I wish I could love someone, or be loved, or else be dead! Oh, to be adored! It shall never happen! I wish I were dead in some landfill, with giant worms crawling out of my eyes, my decaying corpse feasted upon by radioactive cheetahs with digestive problems!_

His morbid reveries were interrupted, just then, by a knock on the closet door, followed by his brother's voice. "Faramir, Father wishes to see us."

Wiping his tears on the tattered sleeve of the soiled rag he'd stolen off the back of a lice-ridden peasant who'd been dead for a week, he got to his feet and opened the door. Boromir, five years his elder, awaited him, and he sighed; Boromir was so _beautiful_ in his white miniskirt and heels, so well-groomed, so valiant and perfect and everything that he was not… and it hurt Faramir. It hurt him every time he dared to breathe.

Boromir held Faramir's hand – both their hearts, though they weren't keen on admitting so, fluttered wildly at this – as they walked to the parlour, where their father awaited them for their annual birthday celebration. The brothers shared a birthday which, for Faramir, was always a sorrowful affair.

Boromir had already unwrapped his gifts, which now, even piled up, overflowed from the parlour and into the surrounding rooms and corridors. Among such lovely presents were things Faramir envied, for he had never received a present since his mother's death (which, Denethor believed, came about when Faramir paid Chow Yun Fat to strangle Finduilas with old curtains)— a new wardrobe from the girls' department of Hollister, at least one tonne of makeup, a lifetime supply of teenybopper magazines, and a piston engine.

Faramir pouted. It would be yet another loveless birthday.

"Why, hello, Faramir!" Denethor called, holding out a small package to him. "Happy birthday!"

_Odd_ , he thought, peeling away the wrapping paper from his cherished gift. _Very uncharacteristic._

It was a dead sparrow. Faramir smiled through his tears of joy; not once in the past twenty-three years had he ever received a present, much less a full meal, and this could serve as both. "Thank you very much, Father!"

"Faramir Monica," Denethor warned, "do you dare to speak to me in such a rude manner?"

"…Yes?" Faramir muttered, completely confused, and was promptly smacked with a herring.

"Do not talk to me like that, you sickening, obese, malformed platypus with a head cold!"

"But I never said anything offensive—"

"Your mere _presence_ is offensive!" Denethor screamed, seizing the piston engine and throwing it against the wall. "I rue the day you were born, you stupid girl! I hate you! I wish I had never married Finduilas! I wish I had married Imrahil instead! And yes—" he snapped to Boromir, who had vainly tried to interject, "I know it would have been illegal, but at least Imrahil had nicer breasts than your mother! Eru, if only I had not listened to my father when he told me to marry that sodded, diseased brat! If only I had pushed Finduilas off the city walls when she told me she was with child again! Then I would not be saddled with this most loathsome beast I shudder to consider my own son!"

"But Father, why do you hate me?" Faramir whispered through his tears. Just thinking about it made him want to slash his wrists and listen to My Chemical Romance.

"Hate you?! _Hate you?!_ Where did you get such a preposterous idea?"

"From you, Father."

"Oh, Faramir, my sweet, I don't hate you. But sometimes I do," Denethor, in his aberrantly bipolar fit of madness, grinned and embraced his now favourite son. Suddenly, he tensed; didn't he actually hate Faramir? He couldn't quite remember the reason why; perhaps it had something to do with Finduilas, or sea anemones, or… maybe the Chinese stock market?

Faramir looked up at Denethor, his grey eyes spilling forth with crystalline tears of pure sorrow. "But you've just contradicted yourself."

Denethor merely shrugged. "Forget it, you whiny prat. I'm going to go attend to my stewardly duties and disregard you further. Hopefully my neglect will drive you to attempt suicide again, but if you _do_ decide to kill yourself, please don't emulate pre-Raphaelite paintings in the bathtub a third time. That's two of my favourite dresses you've ruined in the past month. Good day, and happy dying."

Denethor stumbled down the corridor, then darted up the stairs of the tower, in search of his palan- er, his _palta, sí_. Boromir and Faramir glanced at each other- dartingly, at first, but their gazes grew constant and, though Faramir then rued it, oddly passionate. The entire ordeal felt completely uncomfortable; not but one minute ago, he had been sobbing like an emo wanker sans antidepressants over his misfortunes, and now, rather uncharacteristically, his tormented heart pounded in the hollows of his chest, beckoning to Boromir, the only lord of his heart, his soul, his very life…

Boromir sighed dreamily. "Faramir, how I love you! How I have longed to kiss you, to touch your sweet face, to feel the warmth of your mouth on my frigid skin, to love you like Father has not!"

Faramir blushed and decided it would be best to remain quiet, ignoring his brother's creepily ardent advances, even though, deep inside, he desperately longed to return them. Boromir, however, was enraged at Faramir's silence and promptly embraced him, then wiped his tears on his sleeve. "Faramir, my darling, my love," Boromir whispered, "I shall see to it that you are never sad again, that your beautiful soul will never die…"

"It is too late!" Faramir sobbed. "I feel as if my soul is already dead!"

"Do not say that, my darling, my cuddly lovey-pooh baby cakes!"

Faramir only wept more furiously, spurring on Boromir's fervent, incestuous caresses. And as much as Boromir's love made him uncomfortable, it was so, so right, and so beautifully tragic to boot. "But Boromir," he stammered, "my soul is already dead… like a burnt bowl of clam chowder…"

"No more talking, my love, my precious…"

And then lots of naughty, weepy, and generally disturbing acts followed, all of which are too nauseating to relate here. Over in Rohan, more angstiness was astir.

* * *

 

**Part Two: Éowyn**  
(May 3011, Third Age)

Meduseld was a madhouse. Literally. And Éowyn of Rohan knew firsthand.

It wasn't such a bad place at first; no, quite the contrary. Her uncle Théoden, the King of Rohan, had taken in his sister's children when she died, and raised Éowyn and Éomer as his own. She had had a relatively happy childhood, despite the deaths of her parents, but somewhere, somehow, King Théoden transcended into madness, probably as a result of reading fanfiction or an unfortunate encounter with Hanson albums, which are indeed prone to making the listener want to claw his or her brains out. At least Éowyn thought so, though she had retained _her_ wits after that concert from hell. Somewhat.

"Gloucester! My unicorns are not rain water!" Théoden shrieked in a spasm of madness. "O heavy day! O solemn day! O poke me, Jackie Onassis Kennedy!"

Théoden's eyes rolled back into his head, and, grinning like the Cheshire Cat on speed, he waved a dandy hello to Laurence Olivier, who was having intimate relations with a two-metre tall carrot on the opposite side of the hall. Or so Théoden believed. He wasn't all that sane, Éowyn thought bitterly. No, the King of Rohan was not at all sane.

His counsellor, Gríma, was an entirely different story. Maybe. Aside from his appalling lack of eyebrows, his neglect of personal hygiene, and the fact that he was just creepy in general, he was perfectly normal. Maybe. Still, Éowyn thought, Gríma _was_ disgusting and too often stared at her for hours on end, drooling and panting like an Alaskan Malamute in heat. From her seat by the fire, she quickly glanced at the dais on which her uncle and Gríma sat; yes, there he was, ogling her with a glassy look in his eyes. She briefly wondered whether he was thinking about truss bridges. Judging from that sordid stare and her previous (and unfortunate) experiences, he most likely was not.

Éowyn found it hard to hear her own thoughts over her uncle's insane ramblings, which now concerned absolutely nothing at all, as usual. She knew very well that she could never escape both the lunacy that constantly went on at Meduseld and Gríma's pervasive creepiness. The only escape she could find lay outside the city walls, on the vast, rolling plains of her homeland; somehow, staring at nothing lessened the void of apathy that tugged at her heart so often.

Sighing, she rose and walked to the window, set upon gazing at the wintry landscape for hours. But, to her surprise, there was someone standing in the window – a bearded someone in a soaked blue dress, clutching a dead sparrow to his bloodied breast…


	2. Faramir's Unnecessary Presence in Rohan

Éowyn froze. There was a filthy man in drag at her window, clutching the pulpy mass of what appeared to have been a bird, once upon a time. He pressed his face, smeared with dirt, against the thin glass, rapping on it and pointing at her. So, he wanted her – sexually, maybe. She had no idea why anyone could want her otherwise, for everyone in Rohan hated her and called her a harlot, but still persisted in begging her for ‘favours,’ which she never gave. She only stared at him, and he knocked harder.

“Eeeeee!” Théoden shrieked like a cat that had just inhaled quite a lot of helium. “Gloucester! Shower curtain oxidises the fear pony! Take me to El Dorado, you enormous snuffaluffagus! Oh, Éowyn, who pounds on the window with the viciousness of toffee requirements?”

_What was she supposed to say to that?_ “It’s… my friend… from the village…”

“Has she… found the stash of melons?” Again his eyes rolled into his head, and the foam at his mouth streamed onto his prized £682 Versace ball gown. “Jessup has parted the travellers’ cheques from the iron, you know…”

“No, Uncle Théoden,” Éowyn replied, completely unaware of what on earth her uncle meant by that. “If you’ll excuse me, I wish to speak with her.”

Éowyn did not wait for an answer, for she knew that even if she did get one, it would most likely be incoherent, ambiguous, or plain nonsensical. She quickly opened the door and rushed out onto the porch area, where the strange man waited. Well, maybe he was in drag and his dark hair was so greasy that it could serve as a torch, but her heart fluttered at the sight of him.

Composing herself, she said, “My lord, who art thou, and wherefore art thou here?”

“Speak like a normal person, will you? Your horrible use of archaism makes me want to drown babies in a vat of Windex.”

“If you will it, my lord,” she said plainly. “I am Éowyn, the king’s niece, and would very much like to know who you are and why you’re here.”

He paused, turned back to gaze at her. “My name is Faramir, son of Denethor, and I had to take a tinkle.”

She blinked. “No, really.”

“I had to take a tinkle.”

“No, _really_.”

Faramir sighed, exasperated. “Sir Philip Sidney is locked in your pantry. I must release him. Please, Éowyn, if you would escort me with haste to the kitchens, we might yet save him from his perilous fate…”

“…But Sir Philip Sidney doesn’t _exist_!”

“That is of little consequence. Come, Éowyn!” And without even waiting for a response, he grabbed her arm and marched off to Eru-knew-where, in search of Eru-knew-what. Maybe Sir Philip Sidney. Most likely not.

“My brother will kill you for touching me, you know, as he is wont to do in fanfics like these,” she managed to gasp as Faramir dragged her around the side of the hall. Of course, he had no idea where he was going, and despite her repeated efforts to break free, his grasp remained strong. “Faramir, let me go!”

“Also of little consequence, and no,” he said nonchalantly, continuing to drag her along. “We all know what shall happen five chapters from now. Éomer shall become wroth over our betrothal and threaten to murder me, but I assure you that when the time comes, I will persuade him that I mean not to defile you, mistreat you, or feed you to wolverines if you burn my supper. Truthfully, Éowyn; it happens in every fanfic.”

“What, that you feed me to wolverines?”

“No, that I’ll convince Éomer that any liaison we may or may not have at any time is legitimate and not worth being a wanker over. So worry not…” he began, but could not finish, for he then noticed a solemn, stoic figure glaring at him from several metres away. He was tall, blonde, and, in his armour and sour disposition, looked positively threatening. _Damn. So this must be Éomer._

“Éomer! This is not what it seems, I swear it!” Éowyn wrenched her arm from Faramir’s grip, turning to smile at her irate brother. Perhaps her apology for nothing she’d done wrong would placate his anger, but still he glared at her and Faramir, most likely considering the proper method of torture to use on him for even daring to go near his baby sister. Mentally groaning, Éowyn recalled one of the many incidents similar to this; not two months ago, the three-year-old son of one of the guards dared to gain Éowyn’s attention and to – even now Éomer’s blood boiled to think of it – sit in her lap for a nice story. The child was promptly thrown in a pit of hungry tigers for his offensive behaviour, and the child’s father had had his eyes plucked out with splintery chopsticks. _No one_ crossed Éomer.

Éowyn, sensing that all would not go well, quickly darted away in hopes of hiding somewhere beyond the reach of her brother’s misplaced wrath. She probably would not find such a place.

Now, all the muscles in Éomer’s face twitched, and he reached for the sword at his belt. “You, rogue, dare to touch my sister?”

“Éowyn was escorting me to the pantry. We were discussing rescue plans.”

Éomer arched an eyebrow. “Rescue plans?”

“Well, yes,” Faramir started. Éomer only glared more intently at him, unsatisfied; even now, it was completely clear that he would never get away with any explanation he might offer, but he could at least try. “You see, Sir Philip Sidney is locked in your pantry, and I thought we could---”

“I will cut you, bitch.”

“Ex… excuse me?” Faramir stammered.

“Tell me why you are really here,” Éomer snarled, “or there _will_ be blood.”

“I had to pee?” he tried.

Éomer’s hand, previously resting on the sheath of his sword, now, to Faramir’s abject horror, now held said sword, which was pointed at him. He gulped. There was no escaping Éomer’s PMS-y wrath… well, maybe some pretty poetry about Éowyn would appease him. Yes. That was it. He had to, in sickeningly purple prose, praise Éowyn! Then, perhaps, he could survive long enough to find Sir Philip Sidney… or… do whatever the heck he was here to do, whatever _that_ was.

“I’m only here to gaze upon this beloved lass,” Faramir exclaimed, “Lady Éowyn, this sprightly nymph with hair of spun gold and eyes the colour of ammonia-laden cat sick! Her breasts, two spoilt mango halves, the tops of which fair nature herself hath decorated with cancerous growths! Ah, but do her eyes excite me, so lovingly frosted with hatred and perpetual drug use!”

Silence. Pure silence. Éomer pinned Faramir to the wall and quieted him with a sword at his throat before Faramir could even blink, and he gasped, struggling to breathe. Somehow, what he said must have been offensive… and now he was going to die, going to be dead in a landfill with worms crawling out of his eyes, like he’d so desired not but a month ago… and now, after meeting Éowyn, he didn’t want to die any longer. How beautiful she was, how perfect! But he would die before he could ever had a chance to love her, and that was enough to kill him outright.

“Get the hell out of Rohan,” Éomer growled. “The author doesn’t read these fics often – for obvious reasons -- and thus can’t mock you any longer.”

“But I’m in Rohan! I’m supposed to stay here!” Faramir protested. “I’m a diplomat of some sort! I’ve been betrothed to Éowyn since she was five! I’m here to kill orcs or something!”

“No. The premise is that you’re in Rohan for an unspecified amount of time for reasons that are invalid, for I am the president of Asia. You’re in Rohan… or, more fittingly, you _were_. Now leave. I am feeling kind today and shall not kill you. Leave, and if you dare return to these lands, I will personally see to it that you die in the most painful manner possible.”

“But you need military aid! I’m to be your steward!” Faramir tried in vain. “I had to pee! I left my copy of Shakespeare’s _Gay Boys in Bondage_ here and have come to fetch it! Tonight I dine in Rohan! Fie, fie, then! In truth, I’ve no reason to be here!”

“Exactly,” said Éomer. Faramir was promptly carted off to the city gaol, where he was executed, despite that he will return in later chapters. And thus Faramir of Gondor’s bothersome, rather unnecessary presence in Rohan came to an end, much to the relief of canon-lovers everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: really, _really_ bad poetry. Prepare your brains for inevitable damage.


	3. Incredibly Awful Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin...

**Poem One – Meaningless "Artsy" Poem**

faramir and éowyn are cute,  
like two ((happy)) puppies,  
like love pErSoNiFiEd;;;  
like a quail that's been run over  
and feasted on by detectives;  
like J.o.H.n. D.o.N.n.E poking  
elephants in sOiLeD kNiCkErS*

like  
abelard and héloïse  
except  
faramir is not c/a/s/t/r/a/t/e/d  
and has f u l l reproductive function.

oh my  
pity the soul  
pity the mole  
beneath emyn arnen  
that has _forgotten_ the  
lo/ve be/tw/ee/n faramir  
and éowyn  
that  
en  
-compass  
-es

middle earth and  
(towel baguettes  
ffantastig n00b radiatur  
o wedi blino my socks)  
their H*e*A*r*T*s 0000

 

* * *

 

 

**Poem Two – Typical Farawyn Poem with No Sense of Metre**

He looked at her in the garden and fell in love  
Cos she was like an angel from above  
With hair so soft and eyes so bright  
He knew she was not drinking Sprite.

She looked at him and fell in love  
Happy as a dove  
Faramir was the steward and was so kind  
If he rented from Blockbuster, he'd rewind.

So anyway the world again was happy  
And this poem is getting sappy  
They got married and lived very long  
So now I end this retarded song.


	4. Ridiculously Immature Songfic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faramir, in the Houses of Healing, reflects upon the sorrowful changes in his life and meets the one person who will change it for the better-- all to the tune of some godawful music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the songfics I'm talking about— the ones to horrible songs by preteen Disney artists or whiny "alternative" bands that, y'know, like totally describe the love between two complex, non-twelve-year-olds. If you want juvenile, you can _have_ juvenile, and please do keep it.

Faramir wiped the tears from his eyes, staring blankly at the verdant garden in which he'd loitered for the past ten hours sans an actual purpose. Such sights before him, in times of despiséd war, were all too beautiful for his tormented heart to treasure, for said war would simply ravish that corner of the miserable world of which he was an indistinguishable part. And it hurt Faramir. It hurt him so that all in his life had come to naught, that he was a highborn Steward's son, yet he wept in the garden of the Houses of Healing like a lovesick preteen girl who had just read _Romeo and Juliet_ in simplified English and thought its passions becoming to her piteous adolescence.

_Baa, baa, black sheep,  
Have you any wool?_

But Faramir had no passions. Faramir was dead, at least in spirit, and his body would soon follow, or so he hoped. _O, to be thrown into Sweeney Todd's meat grinder would be the grandest bliss of all!_ , he silently wailed, rivulets of hot tears flooding from his lake-grey eyes. _O, that I should be dead, that I should feel no more, and exist only as a pie! O, I would feed myself to my cruel father, and he should gorge himself on my roasted flesh…_

_Yes sir, yes sir,  
Three bags full._

Sniffling, Faramir realised that he had absolutely no idea from whence the strange music about sheep played, and also that his father had crazily set himself on fire not long ago.

_One for the master,  
One for the dame,_

His tears, now, were salty and pleasurably hot, like the fire that raged in his loins when he thought of John Denver's sexy glasses. But John Denver, like Denethor, was so lucky to be dead, and whatever became of his glasses was lost to Faramir, as was all hope of earthly bliss. Besides, one could not romance a deceased singer's eyewear, he reminded himself with a saddened groan, nor could he romance anything or anyone else, for none would love abhorrent Faramir, the unloved, diseased man who collected his own bogeys and often pranced about Minas Tirith in a gold lamé leotard, intent on stalking Winston Churchill.

_And one for the little boy  
Who lives down the lane._

Suddenly, almost out of nowhere, a figure stepped forth into the garden from the blurry shades that clouded Faramir's eyes. She was beauty personified; her long golden hair was tangled and crawling with lice, and her eyes must, he thought, be pale blue or grey or something underneath that bloodshot, drugged gaze. His heart fluttered as he beheld her clumsily sauntering towards him, a stick of butter in one hand, the other intent on groping Faramir as she tumbled into his waiting arms in her sodded daze. _  
_

_Baa, baa, black sheep,  
Have you any wool?_

"H-h-h-hi," the woman stuttered, blushing furiously. "Do you happen to have any South American pack animals?"

Faramir smiled, his spirit stirring with renewed life. He knew right then and there that he loved this random stranger, and his soul unshackled itself from its despair and joined in the flowing melody that streamed through the winter air:

_Yes sir, yes sir,_ _  
Three bags full._


	5. Éomer Is an Overprotective Git

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Éomer, being the best big brother that he is, ends up being just a _wee_ bit overprotective and out of character when it comes to Éowyn's upcoming marriage to Faramir.

Life in Minas Tirith was grander than grand after the defeat of Sauron. Well, maybe living in the aftermath of war wasn't _grand_ , but things were a lot better than they had been. No longer did plants and flowers and bunnies and things wither in the shadow of Mordor. No longer did hope flicker and die in the eyes of the people, or some poetic shit like that. Basically, life was great… except for Éomer, of course, who, at least in fanfiction, had taken to being as mopey and irritating as a teenager who didn't get an iPad for Christmas and felt the need to broadcast so on Twitter.

Éomer should have been happy; he should have cared. He should have gone to his formal with Timothy Laird. That, of course, was beside the point. Life sucked for Éomer despite that he was now the King of Rohan. His sister ignored his summons and was spending all her time with a hobbit and that ugly steward who resembled a crepe in some inexplicable way; the ale in Gondor tasted like bird pee; he really wanted to kiss his sister but she was, you know, totally his sister; and his dead uncle, now laid out in state in the citadel, was beginning to look like a swollen black salami stuffed into a waistcoat and britches. Éomer kind of wanted to eat him, but didn't know if he was kosher. There would be no reprieve from these woes but death or, more favourably, being in an invariable state of intoxication.

Éomer chose the latter. He drank with Merry. He drank with Pippin. He drank with Beregond and Bergil. He boogied with Gimli. Éomer got trashed with pretty much all the surviving members of the Fellowship at Cormallen, and, one particularly bad day, he even passed around a flask of Kahlua milk with several large igneous rocks he discovered in Cair Andros; he had had to be literally dragged back to civilisation when, more later than sooner, it was realised he'd been gone for ten hours.

It was on one such day when, upon his return to Minas Tirith for the coronation of King Elessar, Éomer's world came crashing down into an even bleaker, more desperate and miserable hellhole. That day didn't start out that way, no; it was a time of great celebration, for the Heir of Elendil had returned, for the White Tree of Gondor faded no further, for a great feast was taking place at the gates of the city. The Philly Phanatic had been captured and seasoned with oregano and smoked chipotle, and was currently being roasted, tousled fur and Phillies shirt and all, on a spit over a heaping pile of coals. No one in the city quite knew how or why the baseball mascot ended up in Middle Earth, but they didn't care; it looked damn tasty.

Éomer thought so, too, so he stopped a while for a steaming heap of mascot flesh and his twenty-second litre of gin that morning (it was only 10:00, if you were wondering, but probably 17:00 in Far Harad). His early merrymaking was interrupted, however, by a furious tugging on the sleeve of his blue and yellow polka-dotted muumuu.

"I beg your pardon, Éomer King, but I bring tidings from the Lady of Rohan, who desires your counsel on a matter quite serious," said the young muumuu-tugger, a rather cross-eyed messenger. "She bids you come to the Houses of Healing at your earliest convenience."

_Oh drats oh drats oh drats oh drats oh drats oh drats oh SHIT!_ thought Éomer. Without delay he dropped his things and rushed away to the Houses of Healing, tripping over and subsequently scuffing his resplendently shiny and way-too-pink go-go boots. Nothing would ever prevent him from being there for his sister, except maybe death and the series premier of Desperate Housewives. Nothing.

* * *

On a wall overlooking the gardens of the Houses of Healing, Faramir and Éowyn were relaxing in the glorious sunshine that now shone freely over Gondor. The day was bright, as were their hearts, and the fair breeze that blew their hair carried a faint scent of lilies. But enough of these falsely serious introductory paragraphs. If you groan when they, as you should expect by now, descend into the realm of the loonies, you should go read actual fanfiction. As stated, the happy lovers were situated in the place where first they kissed, and were now watching Ioreth, in turn, who was liplocked to a very attractive cactus in the gardens below, for reasons beyond the comprehension of those who are sane.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Éowyn wondered as Ioreth, in her ardour, did not flinch when a giant cactus-barb pierced her right through the eye. Ioreth merely giggled like a discomfited schoolgirl and continued snogging the unresponsive cactus.

"Love always hurts in some way or another, though. Love is a prick in the flesh, a splinter in the heart, the wound of a Morgul blade," Faramir noted with a hint of grief in his voice. He was probably remembering Boromir and his succulent arse. "But love, too, is reparation, the coming of light at the end of bleakest night, the quickening of hope in the hearts of the despairing. And bliss," he sighed, drawing Éowyn closer to him, "is getting to spend the rest of my life with you, my love."

"Oh, enough of this tender bullshit," she protested, but he stopped her mouth with a kiss.

"WHAT IS THIS DEVILRY?!" came a voice from somewhere below them. It was Éomer, panting, his muscular, sexy chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. With him came the overpowering whiff of cheap gin and a pub toilet. "WHO DARES SNOG MY SISTER?!"

Ioreth, in shock from such loud yelling in her vicinity, stumbled and fell further into her spiny, stoic lover, profusely bleeding from at least thirty freshly-poked orifices. She fell over, dead, and her withered corpse was promptly devoured by Lithuanian postal workers and some psychopathic fax machines (which didn't even have mouths, but whatever). Éomer stumbled past the scant remains of the crotchety old healer towards the (somewhat) more sane lovers, reeling with fury.

"I requested that you come _at your earliest convenience_ , such as _after attending to your duties_ or _later this afternoon_ , not in three minutes," Éowyn said. "How you even got to the sixth level of Minas Tirith in that time is astounding."

"Speak not of logic in fanfiction! And this _is_ my earliest convenience. I would do anything for my wee, adorable, sweet, beautiful, incredible, really bangin' sister," wept Éomer, now drunkenly struggling up a flight of stairs to join them. "What counsel would you have, Éowyn?"

"Well, we might as well get it over with now that he's here, plus he's relatively sober at the moment," she started, glancing at Faramir, who looked just a wee bit anxious. "Éomer, Faramir and I have something to tell you. Please listen a moment— without judgement and without scorn, that is."

"Well, what is it? _What is it?!_ "

"Faramir would like to ask you for my hand—"

"You've… you've ruined my baby sister!" Éomer roared, pointing at Faramir. "By the Valar, Éowyn, you slag! I should have known! Oh Eru, oh Eru! You've gone and done it! You've done it with him, sister! Faramir, you pervert… you… you _crepe with a nose_! Well, you've got to marry her now, haven't you?!"

"What?!"

"You very well know what, you crepe!"

"What?!" Faramir, who had hitherto found Éomer's nervous pacing and outbursts of drunken foolishness at least somewhat amusing in the light of how out-of-character they were, was by now pretty miffed. "Éomer, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I don't know!" Éomer moaned and tore at his golden hair like a prissy girl whose mother had denied her tickets to a Justin Bieber concert. "I've no idea!"

"Fara, he thinks you're only asking to marry me because you've knocked me up or something, and he also thinks that you look like a crepe," whispered Éowyn, who was, after twenty-three long and torturous years, on her way to becoming a master at interpreting Éomer's incessant, incomprehensible drivel, "both of which make no sense at all." She turned to her brother, who was sobbing against the wall. "Éomer, you're being irrational. Faramir resembles no crepe, and he wishes to marry me simply _because he loves me_ , not for reasons related to my chastity or lack thereof. If such knowledge would put your heart at ease, I have known-in-the-Biblical-sense no men."

"That didn't stop the Virgin Mary from being a knocked-up hoochie mama!" Éomer whined, avoiding Éowyn's irritated stare to caress a rather sexy caterpillar he'd just spotted; it reminded him of Elrond's eyebrows. In his mind, he named it Umberto. "You'd best mind yourself in future!"

"I love Éowyn," Faramir said, his voice shaking, "and I give you my word that my intentions are pure and that I have not touched her."

"Yes, you have," Éomer blurted, pointing to Faramir's hand, which was entwined with Éowyn's. Faramir immediately withdrew his hand and blushed.

"Look, you childish, drunken, incestuous twatfritter, I wish to marry your sister, who is white as snow, fresh as water, pure as the finest Venezuelan cocaine! We have not 'done it' and she is not 'ruined'! I just want your blessing! Actually, I don't care if you approve of our union or not; I am going to marry Éowyn next year and that's that. We shall cross the River and there, in happier days, we shall grow plants and things and copulate all day and have more children than is necessary, for this is cheesy fanfiction. And I shall bone her and you shan't!"

Éomer, taken aback by Faramir's sudden, uncharacteristic rage, fell silent. "Socks," he murmured after a few incredibly awkward moments.

"…What about them?"

"I don't know. It just felt right to say it at the moment."

Éowyn leered at him. "Well? What have you to say about Faramir's proposal?"

Éomer began to cry even harder now, his soul crushed and tears pouring out his grey eyes like overflowing, undammed rivulets of pure emotion. In his despair, throwing himself upon a cactus as Ioreth had done, or else jumping into a tank of underfed hammerhead sharks at the local aquarium, seemed like fitting ends to the unending misery that was his deplorable life, but he resisted the overwhelming urge to do either. "I apologise for offending you, Éowyn, but I will never, ever apologise for loving you too much." He glared at the Crepe. "And Faramir, if you so dare as to ever, in any way, wrong her, I _can_ and I _will_ cut you, bitch."

"Duly noted," said Faramir, narrowing his eyes, "though I expect you never shall, for fanfiction authors stray not that far from canon."

"We'll see about that," Éomer snarl-cried. "Wait and see what this one's going to do to Lothíriel! I shan't lose hope!"

Then, for reasons related to his having had way too much gin and this chapter being too long already, he keeled over. The furious wind blew up his muumuu, revealing his flowery My Little Pony knickers, and his arm dangled precariously over the edge of the rampart. To what desolation Éomer of Rohan would later awake, none could say and none could understand, for few, if any, could descend to the dark, emo depths of anguish that Éomer knew too well. Now, though, he was at peace in his long-desired state of unconsciousness. From the gardens below, the psychopathic fax machines eyed the passed-out King's dangling arm, licking their paper trays with half hungry, half seductive tongues.

Faramir motioned to push him. "Shall I? It'll spare us a lot of agony in future, you know," he pleaded.

"No. I like seeing him like this— minus the knickers, of course. Those are nasty," Éowyn said softly, bending down to drag her brother away from the edge and cover him with her cloak. "For the first time in his life, he's not being a blubbering twit. Let's just leave him here and go snog elsewhere."

And so they did, for life was too short to drag this chapter on any further.


	6. Illiterate Wedding Night Loooove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING IN BIG BOLD TEXT:**  
>  Here be a more-extreme-than-usual disregard for grammar, paragraphs, sentence structure, capitalisation, spelling, canon, characterisation, etc. Also, as the chapter title should imply, here be smexing, although not in detail greater than any of that in a normal T-rated fic. If any of these things will bother you, feel free to skip this chapter; I understand. I am not to be held accountable, however, for the loss of brain cells you'll undoubtedly experience if you do read this. It's bad. It's THAT BAD. :3

It was Faramir and Éowyn's wedding. IT was a very fun and beautifull affare where all the Fellowships where attending. Frodo and the hobbits to. "We have too see Theyre big matrimonie," Merry had insisted and even tho Frodo and Sam Cried lots cos gay marrage wasnt alloued in the Shire and it made them Emo they didnt want too go but they all did anywae. The hobbits were their: Sam and Frodo where wareing matching Coral pink gouns from Gwisgfa Brides.

Legaliss Gimmli Sam Frodo Mary Pippen Aragroin and Gandlef were all redy too see the weding seramoney. It Tooked place in a big Mormon temple in Ithilyen. All the bisships and preestz and eldirs were theyre too even tho no 1 was Mormon.

So Farameer and Eowynn was now marryed and he kissed the bride. She hads a flaver of old boots and sweet & sowr pickles. Grinning too himself he thot of the Nite to come so swetty and hot on the bed or may b the bare Exibet of the lokel zoo.

He laffed taeking Eowns hand "I luv u so many"

"I luv u 2" she wispared LooKing deep into hiz powerfull blue orbs of luv

"Ya" sed Farymir

And in the distense Frodo cryed hot teers of pane and sorrow cos he liked 2 stick his nawty bits were they werent sapposed to go and he wanted a Wedding like Firamers. Sam begin too cry as well and Fyrameer seethed like a Angrie PMSing rinoseris. The hobbits where rooining his speshal Day with theyre gayness!

"STFU!£2!" Farimyre skreemed and the hobbits shut up. Kissing Éowyn he sed "lets have are partee now"

So they went into the big hall were theys were all gonna party lol! And there was a lott of alkyhol so everyone gots reallie sodded badly. Aragron was performing a Strip Tease in a kantilope soot and his wife Arwen was Laffing hysterikly at a tin of Baked beens saying "o san disk o san disc why you proab my anus for the leprikaun's gold?"

Eowynn new the nite would be fun but rite now it was boaring. She wanted her huzbind so badlee she thot she wuld burst like wen u has a huge tick on ur bum and its suckin ur bloodz for days end then oops u sit on it and 23234 litrez of bloods Runs like a rivar onto ur knew white trowzers and then u feal sad cos they wuz new and u wuz walking round Pwllhelli like dat. Smilin she luuked at Furamer dansing with Mercutio who was wareing Nothing but green nee-hi soks it was a beyotiful site and she new Farimir wuld be good 2 her in bed and may b out of it lol. He was very hott and thinking abt him made Eowynfd feel hot lyk the Sahara dezzert bein blow dryed in August.

Latar in teh nite He came to her sayin "its time foar bed nao Eoweysn"

"OK" she sed smiling nervislee. Before shed thot it'd be so easy to remane calm but now it was nearlee time two go too bed. She was so nervis what if he was Kreepy or had a fetish fore asparagis or what if hed lost his bits in a freek Gardening aksident or had gots the AIDS? But she pushd it from her mind saying it'd be allrite (and it was lol of coarse its with Faramire hes so hot god).

Onse they Where in the bedroom Firumyr throo the dore shut behind them lockin it tite and then throing Himself at her kissin her pashinittely trying to ignoar her flavur. But it felt Sooooo god he thot hed bin wating for this day for a Yeer and now that it was here it felt so sarreel.

"TAKE OF UR CLOTHS" he sed and she did her wite dress pooling at her akils. He notised she was a women end he was buth confused and exsited co shed never seen no women lyk dat before. Farmar onlie had the Sexy tiem with Boramire Argron and Pippyn (and sumtiemz Berigond butt onlie on Tuesdyes!) so he wuz kinda nerfis. Somethin abt Eowund reminded him on the Eye of Sawron like fleshie pink cat sick maede of rubbir so he poked her Hard (a/n: LOL) and she yowled loud.

"Wut u do that foar!1" Éowyn skreemed

"Lol jus makin sure u not broakin" he laffed and embrased her; he wuz sorri for kauzing her pane.

"Im not broken Farumyr" she sed calming doun and lying her hed on hiz sholdar "u heeled mi and I luv u I luv u so many"

Fyrymeer wuz happi and hiz body wuz so redy for her (omg omg omg). Éowyn gasped as her huzbinds beutitfulness stretched out from teh orringe spandex titez he wuz wareing. Then they Did it cos thats what marryed copples do

"Llongyfarchiadau! Mi wnest ti fwyta'r gath!" Furumir mooned in the heet of pashen, His beautifully eyez sparkling as he looked into Eowyns. She smiled at him az Feramyr did his marital dootys adn omg she thot he wuz sooooo god at it!

Éowyn laffed this wuz so fun! "Dw i'n bwyta dau o gathod amser chwarae!"

But Faramer ignoared her it wuz getting hard (a/n: I luv dat word!) for him to control hisself he jus wanted to release his lovley waterfall of stuffs into her and later hed get a poppie bagel wit kreem cheese from a Jewwish deli in New York. Éowyn however skreemed a primel skreem and thot about fyretrucks az Farumiir finished hiz nawty buzniss

"I hoap we has a babee lol" he Sed kissing her

But Éowyn onlie sed "I need too pet the soap"

As u can c it was the perffict beginning of the perffict Relashinship!"£!"££!1£"14

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Llongyfarchiadau! Mi wnest ti fywta'r gath!_ – Congratulations! You just ate the cat!  
>  _Dw i'n bwyta dau o gathod amser chwarae!_ – I eat two cats every playtime!
> 
> No idea why Faramir or Éowyn would speak Welsh, but question not the ways of fanfic authors, for they never make any sense.


	7. Faramir's Annoying Father-to-Be Angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, _Faramir Is Still Tortured by Memories of Uncharacteristically Abusive Denethor_.

_Ttthhhwwwaaaccckkk!_ went the dented tin of reduced fat haggis on Faramir's bruised, bleeding head. He was lying prone on the floor of the parlour back in the Steward's quarters in Minas Tirith, being savagely tortured by his shrivelled old coot of a father for no apparent reason. The abuse had been going on for nigh on thirty-nine hours and about seven minutes – a rather short time, Faramir noted – and it was becoming unbearable. The agony! The fright! The aching of his tender flesh! Denethor's wrathful, jowly face glinting with sweat as he put all his strength, all his vigour into pounding poor Faramir into a pulpy, bloody oblivion!

"How dare you" –slap!— "and I mean, how dare you" –steel-toed boot to the groin!— " _exist_ , you awful, utter failure" –smack!— "of a son!"

"It's not my fault, Father! It's not my fault!"

"Yes, it is! Everything is your fault! You killed your mother, my _wife_ , you incontinent, goat-faced poo muncher! Boromir would never have done so!"

"I didn't kill Mummy; I was only five! And you only preferred Boromir because he was less like you and maybe, deep down inside, you've always hated or resented yourself or something, so you took your frustrations out on me because you were too dignified or too cowardly to castigate yourself."

"How dare you employ the use of reasonable explanations in a fanfiction, you wizard's pupil!"

"I can't help it! Oh, no, Father, no! No, no, no!" he sobbed as Denethor let off beating him and, grinning evilly, went over to his large collection of cassettes. "Not the Village People! Noooooo!"

* * *

Faramir was remembering this terrifying dream as he paced back and forth across his bedchamber and wrung the frilly fabric of his floral, grandmotherly nightgown, just as he had always done in times of distress. It was a fair April night in Emyn Arnen in the last year of the Third Age, when Ithilien was still a pretty desolate and shitty place to live, despite the fact that it won't be in later, more idyllic chapters. It was maybe two in the morning or thereabouts, for clocks didn't exist, I suppose. Faramir couldn't sleep, obviously. He couldn't think clearly. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't live, at least not with the shadow of his loony, abusive pops yet hovering over his wretched life, destroying any semblance of happiness and normality that happened to bless his miserable existence. And said miserable existence, he remembered, was about to get a lot worse.

A Solitary Tear of Sorrow™ snaked its salty way down the Steward's sexy face as he turned towards the bed where his wife – it both cheered him and scared him that he had a wife, of all things, and that he had been married for almost a year now – was tossing and turning in her sleep, dishevelling the Buzz Lightyear sheets as she went. Faramir was crying because Éowyn was about six months pregnant. Was he going to be a terrible father? Did he even love Éowyn and their poor child? Was he somehow, without his awareness, actually and secretly a Tyrannosaurus Rex? He couldn't answer these questions, and it disturbed him very much. He almost desired to die, to be insensibly nonexistent, to have his soul stilled in that great void called the Hereafter, or some profound poetic drivel like that.

"Why hello there, guv'nah," came a deep, seductive voice from somewhere behind him, just for the purpose of breaking up this oppressive angst.

The aforementioned voice belonged to Elrond, who stood there eyeing Faramir, clad in nothing but a silky magenta loincloth and – Faramir recoiled at this most disagreeable sight – the slightly rotted halves of a hollowed-out cantaloupe, shoddily held together by dental floss, for a bra. Faramir wept a bit inside, fearing for his life; that cantaloupe had been meant for Éowyn, who, of course, was craving shit that probably didn't exist in Middle Earth, and was most certainly not in season if it did. Anyway, Elrond's massive breasts spilled out over the tops and sides of his makeshift garment, for he was too well-endowed for the perhaps DD-cup cantaloupe halves. Faramir felt like vomiting.

"I… I… I thought you went to the Undying Lands?" he stammered.

"Indeed I did," Elrond replied, absent-mindedly massaging his mammary wonders, "but I have since returned, for I very much wish to purchase a bogtrotter at discount price. Say, my Lord Steward, have you got about tree fiddy?"

Faramir groaned and handed Elrond £3.50. "Now leave, mind you. I was brooding in peace."

"PIP PIP CHEERIO, OLD CHAP!" Elrond exclaimed in his best retarded Cockney accent, clapping Faramir on the shoulder. And with that, Elrond sped across the chamber, jumped off the balcony, and absconded into the bleakness of the night.

"Was that… Lord Elrond? In a bra?!"

Faramir, sputtering from trying his hardest to not puke in his mouth, spun around to find Éowyn sitting up in bed, looking bewildered and nauseated.

"Unfortunately so. He took the cantaloupe. Sorry about that," he said with a slight groan. "Wait. Why are you awake at this hour? Go back to sleep."

"I can't," she sighed, laying a hand on her stomach. "The baby won't stop kicking." She pouted and glanced at her husband with pleading eyes that seemed to say, _return to bed, beloved, and cuddle me and stroke my hair and recite cheesy-ass, fake Tolkienesque poetry to me,_ _and let us indulge in such fluffy behaviours until I fall asleep on your shoulder and until the fangirls emit squees loud enough to disturb everyone during their German literature lectures, where they should not be reading printed-out fanfics instead of Heinrich Heine, but totally are._

Faramir, however, flipped out in a way that was not, 'by the Valar, I'm going to squee and do it soon'. He pouted. He quivered. He was starting to lose it. Éowyn really _was_ having a baby, and it was kinda sorta _alive_. Holy shitballs!

"Þeorfling, what's the matter? What did I say?"

"Why… why are you pregnant, Éowyn?!" His disbelief of and wonderment at this long-known fact required three question marks and five exclamation points— three question marks and five exclamation points that this website's rubbish document editor refused to acknowledge.

"Because we, as my brother would say, 'did it,' as married couples are wont to do? What the heck kind of question is that, Faramir?"

"But _why_?" Faramir's voice was raised to something of an impassioned whine now. "Why are you pregnant? Why did we want a child in the first place? Why doesn't Donald Duck wear any trousers? Why do Japanese people sneeze into their hands and not wash them? Why do Raggedy Ann dolls have triangular noses? Why did my father hate me? And _why_ ," he added with finality, "am I so much like him?"

"Ah, so this is not necessarily about me or the child, but about Denethor."

Faramir ignored his wife's Legolas-like, very obvious observation. He was trembling ever so slightly, like a wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube man in a one-kilometre-per-hour breeze. "Why couldn't you have blended yourself to death as soon as you conceived?!"

"Because I was enjoying the experience with you, if you don't happen to remember that," Éowyn reminded him. It was incredibly hard for her to remain calm in the presence of such stupidity and angst, particularly with the evil influence of female hormones, but somehow she managed it, though she had no idea how long her dwindling patience would last tonight. Judging from Voldie's own burgeoning impatience, not very long. "Besides, where would I find a giant blender in Ithilien, much less the rest of Middle Earth? And since when is blending oneself into a smoothie an acceptable solution to a pregnancy… that we _wanted_ and _welcomed_ , I should add?"

"It's an appropriate solution to soiling one's knickers more than ten times a month!" Faramir retorted shrilly, his throat beginning to clench and tears beginning to cascade down his ashen face in streams of emotive woe and suffering that could easily rival those of a fifteen-year-old girl at a rather touching My Chemical Romance concert. He felt helpless, so unloved and so unloving! "Asda's probably got them! I'm sure there's a blender sale now on!"

"That is _not_ the issue. Do stop avoiding your problems."

"I am doing no such thing!"

Éowyn's patience had by now been utterly exhausted, and Faramir could have sworn that she was foaming slightly at the mouth. "You are, so let me speak in your stead. You most likely had a dream about Denethor tonight, and it reminded you that he was an uncharacteristically violent, malicious excuse for a father, and also that you consider yourself worthless. As for your present emo fit, you are merely distressed because you think that A, your father still overshadows and influences you; B, you are so much like Denethor that it will destroy both you and the life we've started together; and C, you do not, cannot, or will not love your son, which is, frankly, bullshit."

Faramir blinked, sniffling. "How did you know?"

"Because I've had to endure watching you mope and listening to you muttering in your sleep for the past six months, unfortunately. But no matter; we'll settle this tonight." _Ooph_ -ing a little, she pushed herself to her feet.

"But Éowyn! The baby!" Faramir shrieked, trying to force her back down onto the bed. "Don't get up! You're going to hurt the baby, Éowyn!"

"If you _but the baby!_ me one more time, I will hammer a chopstick up your urethra," Éowyn warned. Faramir winced and let her go. "Not only am I capable of _standing_ , I am _also_ capable of _walking_ and using a _toilet_ , _just as well_ as the author of this fic is _incapable_ of _laying off_ the random _italics_." Éowyn, seething, went over to some random desk in their chamber and rummaged about in it. After a minute, she seemed to have found what she was searching for, and thrust a paper and a quill into Faramir's hands. "You are going to do this and are going to do this _tonight_ , Faramir."

"Italics, Éowyn!"

She pointed to the paper. "Just shut up and read it. _Now_."

Biting his lip and ignoring the stinging feeling in his eyes, as well as Éowyn's annoyed glare (would she kill him and then sell his mangled flesh to a local steakhouse? He hoped so), Faramir started reading the directions. Quite simple, really. 'This conveniently available test-quiz-exam thing is to determine how much like Denethor you truly are. There are four questions. Read each question and tick yes or no. Marks are out of one hundred, with one hundred being very Denethorish (if so, please go set yourself on fire, as you have likely already considered), and anything under fifty being a commendable achievement of un-Denethorishness'. Easy enough in theory, but Faramir just went blank, his hands trembling, his mind racing, his heart pounding like the hooves of ten million wildebeests across the plains of wherever wildebeests live (Kansas? Wyoming?). So this was it: the moment of truth, the moment he would ascertain his doom, the moment he would confirm his worst fears.

_Are you the Steward of Gondor, or, if not, his son?_

Faramir whimpered and ticked 'yes'. Not a promising start, to be sure.

_Do you listen to Celine Dion?_

He ticked 'no'.

_Are you an *insert an offensive cuss word of your choice here*?_

The answer, again, was 'no'.

_Do you look like a dachshund with lady bits for a face?_

He stared at the question for a moment, a bit perplexed, then drew his own box and ticked 'maybe'. Tears welled in his eyes again as he handed over the paper to Éowyn, who scrutinised it as best she could in such dull light.

"Well, my love, it seems that you are only twenty-five percent like Denethor, and only for reasons that can't be helped, unless you feel like giving up your office." Faramir opened his mouth to speak, for surely the results were wrong, but she shushed him. "Now you are going to ask, I'm sure, something along the lines of, 'even if I'm not like Denethor, how can I be certain that I'm not going to be a horrible, hateful father'?"

"Yes. Am I doomed?" he whispered through the remnants of his tears. Somewhere within him he again felt the emo, deep-rooted urge to slice his forearms with a blunted Stanley knife.

"Well, you've not thrown me down the stairs, have you, or put cyanide in my tea?"

Faramir shook his head.

"And you go apeshit if I ever, Ilúvatar forbid, need to walk anywhere, as I am oh so fragile?"

"Yes, as demonstrated earlier."

"And you whisper sweet nothings to your unborn child whilst you think I'm asleep but am really not?"

"Naturally," he said, flushing; he hoped she hadn't overheard that rather one-sided conversation about how sexy he thought electric kettles were.

"Then you're fine. Now stop moping, for the love of Eru, before I feel the need to run a sword through your face."

In a sudden change of heart, because the author has neither the time nor the desire to write another chapter or so of misunderstandings and angst, as misunderstandings and angst are not in the least bit funny, and are actually rather annoying because we've all read this fic before, Faramir began feeling loads more positive about the whole situation in a literal, unreasonable instant.

"That's Wizard's chess," Faramir sighed contentedly, wrapping his arms around Éowyn and licking her forehead like some kind of gecko, if geckos had tongues, which they probably do because why wouldn't they? Both Éowyn and the writhing parasite in her gut calmed down in his embrace. "You are so very wise, snuggy wuggy poo poo."

"That's only because I've read this fanfiction a hundred times or more." Faramir made a derpy face. "Don't look at me like that, þeorfling! What else am I supposed to do when your child refuses to let me sleep and you are off whinging in the garden like a lovesick teenager? Would you rather me read fics about Tom Bombadil having homosexual relations with Treebeard?"

"Actually, yes. Sounds hot."

And so Éowyn and Faramir crawled back into bed and drifted off into contented sleep in each other's arms, not thinking of Denethor, Gríma, abuse, angst, or war, but of long, wooden, hard, moss-covered, sexy legs and the strange, yellow-booted spirit who loved them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the blenders: my brother, when he was about nine or so, wrote a series of stories about various _Lord of the Rings_ characters having to blend themselves to death when they soiled themselves more than ten times a calendar month— no more, no less. Elrond died in this manner several times, however that was supposed to work. Batshit humour runs in the family, you see...


	8. Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Please Kill Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, _The Obligatory Éomer/Lothíriel Side Plot_

Éomer of Rohan was, once again, angry and piss drunk— but, naturally, that came as no surprise to everyone who had to deal with him, as they had had to put up with his incessant bitchery for the past… well, _forever_. Not that Éomer was by nature a fussy or disagreeable person; perhaps he had been under the influence of too many bad fanfictions, or possibly he was just in a constant state of aggressive drunkenness that could easily rival that of any braindead frat boy from upstate New York. Whatever the case, things did not bode well for poor Éomer at all, even in the wake of Sauron's defeat. Two years, three months, one week, five days, and about eleven hours had passed since then, and Éomer was keeping track— for a good reason, of course. He was keeping track of the hours and days that defined and added to his misery.

There were still orcs and other less than pleasant remnants of evil days about, and governing his kingdom did keep Éomer busy. When, at night, he finally settled into an empty bed, that emptiness overcame him- drained him, even. There was nothing for which he could live, for his sister was married. His darling, baby, adorable wee sister. He liked her boobies, but her boobies were in Ithilien, being fondled by a steward who looked like a rolled-up crepe with a nose. And, as Éowyn had written to him, she was pregnant. By... _Faramir_. The Crepe. Dressing up like Crash Bandicoot while singing into cones of chocolate ice cream (no sprinkles) was the only thing that kept Éomer from slashing his wrists with kitchen utensils and departing this cruel, cruel world.

So two years, three months, one week, five days, and eleven hours of loveless, wifeless, sisterless anguish had passed before Éomer, for the first time in practically forever, set out on a journey to Emyn Arnen. Éowyn had written to him earlier in the year, begging him to visit her before the child would be born. And then, for the trillionth time that year, it struck Éomer: his sister was married. Her dratted _husband_ would be there, and most possibly his dratted _family_ would be as well, or whatever remained of it after many of its members took to dying in hilarious manners. This was, Éomer deduced, the grandest and best time of all to be sodded out of his wits.

As soon as Éomer arrived in Ithilien that July, he knew the whole experience would be an altogether shitty one. It was raining, he was beginning to run out of rum, he was frustrated, and he had had the misfortune, while still travelling on a wee road next to a stream, of witnessing Barack Obama skinny-dipping with a couple of unicorns. _Hopefully_ , he thought, _seeing Éowyn and the Crepe won't be that bad, at least compared to this._

He was wrong. Dreadfully and utterly wrong. Sighing, he pushed open the door to their home and was greeted with yet another horror: Éowyn and the Crepe standing before him, wearing oversized chicken costumes and evil grins on their faces.

"Oh, Éomer," Éowyn said through her raspy man-laughter as soon as Éomer entered the parlour, "Faramir and I know exactly what you want."

"A canoli? Some sleep? Not to have the image of Barack Obama in his birthday suit ingrained in my mind forever?" he offered. "Maybe, if you would be so kind, a hello?"

"We know you want a woman," the Crepe said sleazily.

"That has nothing to do with anything and I don't want to marry!" he whined, somewhat confused by what in the world they meant by all this. Neither of them had even greeted him properly.

"In light of my recent marriage and subsequent 'family way,' I was remembering that not only are you a rather drunken five-year-old in a man's body, you need to grow up and be kingly, and then you'll need an heir," Éowyn gently reminded him, "and for that, you need a wife. Besides, a wife will tame you well."

Éomer, blushing furiously, looked away and down the corridor, pretending he wasn't listening. Maybe if he focused on a random mop and various cleaning supplies some of the servants had probably forgotten to put away, then Éowyn would leave him the hell alone. And that mop, in his stupor, was looking oddly attractive. Those long, sopping, dirt-caressed strips of fabric! That long, phallic handle worn with years of use and love! Its beauty almost beckoned to him; the mop was parting its moppy linen lips to moan his name to the ignorant heavens! He wanted that mop with all the desire that had ever existed within him, wanted its moist love-strands to caress every last centimetre of his body. He would surely burst if he could not have such a beauteous creature for a lover!

"Not _necessarily_ ," Éomer droned reassuringly, swaying on his feet and pointing to the sexy mop, which, in his inebriated mind, he named Ricardo. "I could get that with child."

The Crepe laughed. "But it's a mop."

" _So?_ "

"It doesn't have… um, you know. Bits."

"Have you _checked_?"

"Uh… no."

"Then don't assume. Ricardo is offended."

"Ricardo?!" Éowyn interjected, by this point completely confused.

"The mop. Now apologise, both of you. I'll not have you insulting my husband."

Éowyn sighed. "Fine, I apologise. But look, Éomer; you cannot remain unwed forever. Don't you know how lovely it is to be married and to have a family? Even _I_ , rather uncharacteristically, am rather too fond of it."

"I'll adopt little orphan Annie! She can rule Rohan after I'm dead!"

"Why on earth would you ever want to adopt a ginger?" the Crepe spat. "It'd kill you faster than you could say _worthless git._ "

Éomer shrugged. "I suppose I won't. It always looked kind of starved and mean, like it'd dig out my eyes with spoons if it felt like it." Éomer hated gingers. They were evil and he had no idea why he'd even suggested adopting one. But still, he thought, better adopt a ginger than marry some disgusting woman who was not his sister. There _was_ Ricardo, but Ricardo was a mop and it probably didn't have genitalia, and that fact made Éomer so depressed that he briefly thought of sticking his own reproductive bits into a meat grinder and forfeiting his rule of Rohan.

"I've had an inkling of an idea for quite some time now but have forgotten to mention so until a convenient time like this," the Crepe said coolly, eyeing the intoxicated, frantically daydreaming King of Rohan with almost too much amusement. "I have a cousin, Lothíriel, who is coming to assist Éowyn with the birth despite that she is young, inexperienced with anything at all related to sex, and has only met Éowyn once."

Éomer raised an eyebrow. Why the hell did that stupid man need to tell him that? Who cared? "And your point is?"

"Lothíriel is unwed, Éomer, and beautiful. She's eighteen, virginal, and quite your 'type,' as they say. She's so pleasant that she can soften your wee little heart. Why, she's due to arrive tonight." The Crepe cracked a malicious smile, and Éomer felt his heart sink. Did the Crepe mean to set him up with the bleeding slag?

_O Ricardo! Ricardo! I have already betrayed thee!_ Éomer's pitiable heart wailed. Ricardo, still wet with that morning's suds, poured his tears and soul onto the marble floor as Faramir led Éomer to his lodgings, so far away from his sexily moppish self… so far away from his love.

 

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Éomer growled. The Crepe's favourite guest – his wretched and rather sexy cousin, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth – had been prancing around Emyn Arnen for the past three days, singing that horrid matchmaker song from that horrid musical about some Jewish milkman with too many kids. And, to add to Éomer's horror, Lothíriel was the epitome of beauty and he was undeniably captivated by her. She was dark-haired, feisty, and – he shuddered to think of it because he really was a misogynistic bastard – _intelligent_. So, like any man in his position, he sulked on a sofa in the parlour for a couple of hours just to hear that nightingalish voice straining through the wall behind him.

"Do you feel prepared to shut up now?" he yelled, banging on the wall. "I would prefer to be sulky, lovestruck, and hating you in peace, if you don't mind."

Lothíriel quickly emerged from another room, livid and weeping. "You're such a git, Éomer!" she wailed, beating her little fists against his chest. She was, of course, still too meek and womanly to give him a proper arse-kicking.

"Well, you're a pee-guzzling anus monkey, and I am manlier and more austere than you are." With that, Éomer got up and left.

That was the extent of their verbal communication. The Crepe was quite disappointed about this, but Imrahil, on the other hand, was not. "It's just my daughter's way of saying she loves you," he once told Éomer after Lothíriel had spiked his drink, raped his horse, and kicked him in the balls.

He would never win her, and he could never even think of letting himself truly love her, so he scratched his wrists with paper clips and wrote some poetry. That, for a short time, solved all his ills.

 

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Éowyn went into labour not long later. Éomer was pretty miffed about that (as well as Lothíriel not being very much available either) and the Crepe was too nervous to talk about much of anything, so while they were waiting they found Fëanor and Mîm the Petty-dwarf playing hide and seek in the pantry. Together Éomer and the Crepe beat the random Silmarillion characters within an inch of their lives for no reason whatsoever. Lothíriel emerged with a baby sooner or later, and the Crepe immediately went to write a letter to King Elessar (or, Éomer secretly hoped, to prepare the equipment he would need to produce a snuff film starring his infant son and a couple of snow leopards)… and then Éomer gasped in realisation. He and Lothíriel were _alone_. Lothíriel was so radiant and happy to have a baby cousin. Lothíriel was sexy and she was smiling at him, holding the baby out to him as if they, themselves, were parents… and Éomer, at long last, was _happy_.

"Look at the widdle bayyyybeeeeee!" Lothíriel shrieked in his ear. "'Tis a bleedin' cute thing, isn't it? A-gootchyy goootchyyy gooooo!"

"I suppose it's okay. Kind of cute, kind of tasty-looking, like a rabbit." Éomer glared at his newborn nephew. The creature was actually rather ugly, he thought, and he considered dropping it on the floor just to hear how loud it could scream and if it would end up all 'tarded if it fell on its head. Before he could act, though, Éomer was interrupted by Lothíriel's frantic grasp on his arm; she leaned on him, giggling like a moron.

"Don't babies and marriage just melt your heart?! Oh, Éomer, I am really starting to like you because you have a soft side. There should be three fights, ten instances of mutual silence treatment, and at least one horse ride in which I outperform you and make you realise I'm just as strong and spunky as you are in this fic, but let's just get this over with now. You're sexy. My boobies are nicer than your sister's and they don't smell like cheese like hers do. We should dress up like Terence Rattigan and make mad, furious love in a telephone booth until we're arrested by the Cambodian police. Then we can get married because I really am submissive and feminine and I want you to ravish me!"

"Well, okay," said Éomer.

And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, this is every Éomer/Lothíriel fic EVER, except the serious ones have more witty banter no one ever reads anyways.
> 
> The dreaded Éomer/Lothíriel pairing will return to a fanfic near you in the "What a Happy Family" chapter, whenever I write that. And will Éomer ever be reunited with Ricardo, his moppy lover? What will Lothíriel say to the fact that her betrothed, her beloved King of Rohan, has romantic and sexual feelings for cleaningware? DUN DUN DUN.


End file.
